And the village bells are on the breeze
That stirs thy leaf, dark tree!
How can I mourn, midst things like these,
For the stormy past, with thee?
THE STREAMS.
“The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanish’d!
They live no longer in the faith of heaven,